The Storyteller
by Lizzie Hopscotch
Summary: Bilbo Baggins had many a tale to tell. Too many in fact. This is how the famed storyteller of the Shire gathered his tales, and eventually how he became one himself.
1. Chapter 1

On September 22nd in the year 2890 of the Third Age, Belladonna Took gave a sigh of relief her son _finally_ entered the world. He'd been so stubborn, clinging desperately to what he knew that it had been a long and hard labour on his mother, but now with Bungo smiling down at the new addition Belladonna could admit to herself that it was definitely worth it.

Bag End was filled with the crying of healthy lungs, and the new parents smiled at each other. After years of happy marriage their large home was finally being put to the use for which it was built. As a happy home in which Bungo and Bella could raise their children with a warm hearth and a full pantry. Bella could see it now, Bilbo (for that was definitely his name) chasing after his younger siblings of which hopefully there would be many. He would take care of them, play with them and watch over them. He'd probably make his parents' lives hell too when he reached his tweens, that Took blood demanding to be let out.

Bella laughed at the thought. The neighbours would be scandalised at the sight of a Baggins of Bag End acting as unruly as one of those ruffians from Tuckborough. She couldn't wait, it was sure to be most amusing, for both her _and Bungo_. For no matter what anyone said that Hobbit enjoyed creating a scandal as much as watching one. Why else had he married her?

That was when the pain started.

It was sudden, not at all like the long building ache that came with Bilbo. No, this was quick and sharp and Bella was struck with the wrongness of it. The urge came and she shouted out. Bilbo was quickly passed to his grandfather, Old Gerontius Took having made the journey specially to see his favourite daughter. He watched anxiously as his newest grandson, he had quite a few already, squalled in his arms demanding the comfort of his parents and receiving only the worry of an old Hobbit.

He could not see through Bungo's body as he stood over his panting wife, nor could he hear the quiet words that passed between them. What he could hear, however, was the distinct and very, _very_ loud cry of a newborn.

And it wasn't coming from Bilbo.

Bella and Bungo laughed as the new child was handed to her, Bungo jokingly asking the midwife is there were any other surprises in store and sagging in relief when her reply was in the negative. Gerontius leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sight of the first twins born of Took blood in generations. While multiple births were common in Hobbits, being a ridiculously fertile lot as a rule, the Tooks only saw such a thing rarely. Many blamed the Fae blood that ran in their line, but not to the face of any Took, nor anywhere near their earshot.

Her parents named her Berylla, because when she opened her eyes for the first time they were as green as the hills of the Shire.

~{+*+}~

_This is the story of the Wainriders, as it was told to Bilbo. _(With a few, minor embellishments by a well-meaning tale-spinner)

Far to the East there was a Man named Böri, the Wolf, who rode with his brother Yumruk who acted as his Fist. They were skilled with axe and sword, knives and poisons, and from a young age learned the benefit of sticking an arrow in the enemy's eye.

Their true skill however, lay in none of these things.

It lay in their cunning and determination. It was in their ability to break the great horses and bind them to chariots. It was by their words and the strength that lay behind them that they began to grow strong, and men flocked to them and their cause. Gifts were offered. Great chests of gold and adornments of the finest quality make, some bought some stolen but all of great beauty. The greatest of these beauties was the woman Kuzu, laid before them as a Lamb to be devoured until there was nothing left.

Except this Lamb had a spine as strong as the finest Elvish steel, and so when the Wolf snapped his jaws shut and the Fist pushed her down she passed them both with elegance and grace. She rose before them like a tide, and supported them as their wife. For the brothers did nothing separately, and shared all equally.

With the union sanctified and all made true before the gods, the people swelled like an ocean wave and the tide swept out for conquest and revenge.

~{+*+}~

The first sign of Took blood showed in Bilbo. It showed in the sticks in his hair and the mud caking his feet (and often his trousers). He would trundle around the Shire as young faunts are wont to do, and would greet everyone with a wide grin and sparkling eyes. His sister followed quietly, the younger sibling never straying far from her brother. Her words were few, although she could be seen chattering quite excitably with Bilbo, but her smiles constant. And that was good enough for the people of the Shire.

It was Belladonna who noticed first.

She knew her children, knew them better than they knew themselves perhaps and she could see it. She saw how whenever they played a game of tag with the other children, Berylla was never caught. Her feet almost flew through the Shire, dust kicking up wherever she went. She could see it in how her daughter would watch the sky and wonder how far the clouds travelled. Bilbo, her constant companion, couldn't answer but _didn't that one look like Mr Togo Chubb?_

And as they grew Bella could see it in the tales spoken by Bilbo at the dinner table. How the words carried Berylla away to far off places, and how her eyes lingered there before returning to Bag End. No, Belladonna was sure. When the time came, for there was always a time in the life of a Hobbit, it would be Berylla who left the Shire and Bilbo who would stay. Her son, her eldest boy was far too much like her husband for it to be any different. For all his talk of Elves and fireflies, Bilbo was a sapling with roots becoming strong deep within the Shire's soil. Whereas Berylla, Berylla was still a seedling, ready to be taken and planted elsewhere, for her roots to never take root until she was ready to hold onto what she wanted with the tight grip of the Oak.

~{+*+}~

It was their Father who first told them of the rich Gondorian Lords and their fat appetites. He said it made them slow and weak, that one was more likely to roll than run. He would tell them this over supper, tankard lax in his hand as his waxed on drunkenly. He told them that as Easterlings it was in their nature to take from the bounty offered, for wasn't it the Gondorians who drove them away from their homes in the first? It didn't matter particularly to the brothers, all that was lost in a history they didn't care to learn.

What did matter, what always mattered, was the arrow sticking from their Father's throat shot from the bow of some common soldier of Gondor.

It took them years and the marriage to Kuzu before they were ready to take what their Father claimed was theirs. Their army marched and rode, some on horses, some in chariots, all equipped with sword and spear. Armour was made as they travelled, leather taken from obliging farmers, anything to get rid of the grim warriors.

In the first battle they gained a reputation with the Lordlings of Gondor. A reputation for bloodthirsty work, an endless barrage of teeth and claw, ending with a parade of the dead for a blood soaked Lamb. But they stayed safe in their cities, content to send a few soldiers out to meet them, what was a few farms after all?

It was after they didn't stop that they began to know fear, when the sound of feet and drums echoed in their dreams did they start to quake.

And when the monstrous Wolf with his mighty Fist gifted the heart of the King to the peaceful Lamb – that is when they knew terror.

~{+*+}~

For Bilbo, the Shire was a paradise. He discovered new things every day, like the fact that cousin Falco was afraid of worms, or that Holman Gamgee was the best at potatoes. He knew when the Bolgers were having a party (the ale kegs in the market doubled in number) and that his Grandfather knew so many riddles he couldn't always remember the answer.

Sometimes his feet took him further than he wanted, like the time he ventured too near to the Old Forest, and the strange man guided him back. Folk later said he imagined him, and that no one could live in there, but Bilbo wondered if it had been the mysterious Tom Bombabil. Once he decided to go right instead of left from his door and when he stopped walking he thought he could see the land breaking in waves. Berylla giggled at the notion, and they ran back to check mother's old map, to see if they could find the strange bumps that seemed so much bigger than The Hill. As a respectable Hobbit Bilbo would laugh at this, but for a fauntling of all of ten years, it seemed quite feasible that the land should bend in any shape it wanted.

Berylla declared that one day she'd travel there and find out once and for all.

~{+*+}~

After their defeat on the Dagorlad, the Wainriders burned in their hearts. They were pushed back from what was theirs, and their people, their fierce and proud warriors were disheartened. They stood outside their tent, watching them move around camp. Men, women, even children now, so long had they been at war with these rolling lords that families have grown and died on the battle field. Even their Lamb, beautiful Kuzu, was not immune to this, already having burned two babies on the pyres of the dead, while a third now grew within her. She took their hands and held them tight.

"Will you let this stand, my Lords?" she asked them.

"No," vowed Böri.

"We will be strong again," finished Yumruk.

And the three watched as the determination and fierceness that resided in them grew in their people, until it was time to fight once again.

Boys became men on that battlefield of ruin. One after the other they were cut down, spear broken and armour rent in two.

The General Eärnil, not that they knew his name (if they had it would have been cursed in all the tongues they knew), led his army well. He surprised and routed them, dividing their lines and creating chaos.

It was Yumruk who fell first, and bloody necktie from a lucky slash of an errant page who did not live to see victory. Böri saw his brother fall and his movements became frantic, a deadly mesh of anger and desperation. He could see their army failing, bodies of men that had trusted him falling like rice at a wedding.

He didn't see the blow that felled him, only felt the great blow as it shattered his spine.

Kuzu lived on alone, watching Gondor with a bitter hatred. She raised her son well, she taught him his weapons and his histories. But most of all she taught him her hate, until it festered in his line and could pass to all Easterlings, who would look West and wonder when exactly they could take their revenge.

~{+*+}~

It was a bright summer's day when Berylla met her first Elf. Bilbo wasn't there, having decided that cousin Falco was much better company than being with a _girl_. Honestly, such a silly thing to get upset about. It wasn't like being a boy seemed much better. So Berylla found herself wondering the forest just north of Hobbiton. She'd been there many a time before, with and without company, but this time it felt different. There was a whisper in the leaves that she couldn't quite catch, but found herself chasing, until she quite literally fell on top of the Elves.

In all honesty, it wasn't her fault. It was that silly whisper's fault for leading her to that ledge, how was she to know that three Elves were peaceably having lunch below? It wasn't like they'd been there any time _before_. The Elves, for their part, were incredibly gracious to their new guest, quick to offer food and conversation. Which Berylla accepted with all the grace of a Hobbit too old be a fauntling and yet not quite a tween. In other words, not all that well, but the spirit of it was there. It had been a long time since the three had been in the company of one so young, and found themselves charmed by her guiless nature, and quick laughter.

It was only when Berylla realised that the shadows were getting longer did she notice how much time had passed. She shot to her feet like an excitable rabbit, babbling apologies for being so rude but now she was late and going to be in an awful lot of trouble.

"But you will come again, won't you?" she begged.

"We can't, young Berylla," One told her regretfully.

"We are headed to the West, to our home in Valinor, and once there," the second tried to explain.

"We cannot return," the last finished, and to their consternation Berylla's eyes began to fill with tears.

"But _why?_" she demanded, "Why can't you come back?"

"Because that's the way it's meant to be. Come now, Berylla, let us leave with smiles and not tears." They entreated her.

She did her best to give a watery approximation of her smile, but it seemed good enough for the Elves. They walked her to the edge of the forest, where she could see the lights of Hobbiton glinting in the dark.

"Run fast, little one, you don't want to get into trouble."

She nodded in agreement, taking a step forward before turning and throwing herself at them for a hug.

"I won't forget you," she promised.

"Nor we you," echoed the three Elves, who knew the memory of this little child would keep in their hearts all the way to Valinor.

She nodded resolutely and forced her feet to run fast and to not look back. Somewhere between the Green Dragon and home, surrounded by the cheer of her neighbours the sadness brought about by her new friends leaving faded. A wicked smile broke out across her face.

Bilbo was going to be so jealous!


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo was indeed very jealous. It was this that encouraged his own search to find Elves, and it was during this time that he met Gandalf.

Bilbo, when he reaches the age of fifty, scarcely remembers it. Oh yes, he remembers the whizz-poppers and the congenial old man with the fascinating scarf. He remembers his mother's elation at seeing him, and her mild admonishments for bothering him. Most of all he remembers her smile though, which is how he prefers it.

Gandalf, for his part, can recall rather a lot more of the evening.

For example the bright red of the Old Took's jerkin, and the marvellous treats spread out on large tables. In the darker times, if he concentrates hard enough, he can hear their laughter as he sent out marvellous butterflies made of bright sparks. Belladonna's son is was he can see most clearly though, a bright eyed fauntling, younger in mind than his sister, and full of life. He handed the young Hobbit a toy sword, giving him a fierce enemy in Gandalf's scarf. The sword, of course, was taken by Belladonna.

She hugged Gandalf in greeting, knowing him from her wondering years, before scolding them both lightly. For young Hobbits did not play with swords. Nasty Business, swords were. Later, Berylla found the sword and returned it to Bilbo, where he decided to keep it safe under the bed slats where Belladonna was sure not to look.

(It remained there until Thorin found it, having noticed a strange bump in the bedding which seemed out of place with the rest of the put together Guest Room.)

It was a good night for Belladonna, one she treasured for many years. It was a night where all her favourite people were together and happy, surrounded by the laughter inherent in Shire Hobbits. Like bubbles rising and popping with a tingling burst.

For Berylla though it was a night of confirmation. She was sure now, now that she had met two (_two!)_ races of Big Folk that she wanted to meet more. She wanted to cross the border of the shire She'd been to the borders of Bywater, and into the Binobole Wood. She had danced in and around the hay and cows of the Waymeet. But her feet were itching to go further, forbidden by her mother until she was _at least_ 20, and at 13 years old that was ever such a long way away.

She'd complained bitterly about this to Gandalf, who in her opinion told the _best_ stories. Gandalf, in all his grandfatherly wisdom had told her that her mother was correct, there was many dangers out there in the World, and it wouldn't do for such a small fauntling to get trod on.

"In the meantime," he suggested with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you see if you can find out the secrets of the Shire?"

Berylla thought about this long and hard (which was perhaps a little more than ten minutes) before declaring that she would do exactly that, and become the best explorer of the Shire ever known! Bungo choked on some Pipeweed nearby, before hefting her up and taking her to bed. Belladonna was doing the same thing to Bilbo and the twins put up a token fuss before succumbing to their parents. It wouldn't do for them to get complacent after all.

~{+*+}~

_This is the story of Fréa and his Court of Magicians, as it was told to Bilbo_ (with only a few additions)

The Third King of Rohan reigned for 75 years, earning him the name Aldor the Old. His son, Fréa, was the next in line, already at the age of seventy-five himself. The sons of the new King, Fréawine and Fram sought to help him in his age, for his hands were growing stiff at a rate faster than his father and soon they feared he would be no longer able to hold a sword.

And so they sent for the finest workers of magic known in the land of Rohan. And there were not many. The Rohirrim were, and are, a folk more concerned with the practicalities of everyday then whether or not there was some magic in the air. That is not to say that they did not have their own superstitions, or that they were unlearned. There was many a person known in Rohan for their prowess in the Arts, but for each one there were twenty known for their skill with horses and weapons.

For all they weren't unconcerned with the knowledge to be found in books, they were a suspicious people. A trait born from too many attacks and too many dead. It was this suspicion that made them keen to have a king who could hold a sword, for a sword is what defined the strength of a king. So they encouraged all those they knew with skill of the mind to hurry to Edoras.

~{+*+}~

When Berylla turned fourteen, their parents decided to extend the boundaries of the Twin's wondering. They were now allowed no further than Woodhall, as Bungo had some relatives there who would be quite happy to allow the two to stay a while. Bilbo was delighted at the prospect, and so was Berylla as this was a place entirely new. It did not take long however, before she started looking onwards.

Berylla got her first scar at fifteen years old, when she cut her arm on some wire bordering Farmer Maggot's land. This is, you understand, the elder Farmer Maggot, not the grandfather of the Farmer Maggot always chasing a certain Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck for pilfering his cabbages. This was not a new problem, the tradition of young hobbits making mischief in his fields was an ancient one, ancient in the mind of a hobbit that is.

The Farmer Maggot that Berylla faced was a bit of a rotten soul however.

Not content with simply chasing the young hobbits away, this old one would lay traps at the borders of his crop, much like the wire that poor Berylla so carelessly stepped on. The cut ran diagonally across her feet, not yet as hard as an adult Hobbit's, and pain lanced through it with every step she took. Bilbo, brave sweet Bilbo, came after her when she didn't return. He found her curled up underneath a tree, silently crying into her apron.

"Berylla?" he asked hesitantly, "What's wrong?"

"I-I-I can't _walk_, Bilbo. I cut my foot!" she hiccoughed. She lifted her leg gingerly, exposing her wound to her brother, who was by her side in an instant. He undid his neckerchief and dabbed lightly at her foot, wincing each time she sobbed.

"There now, Berylla, I'm going to wrap it now," he told her gently, whipping out several hankerchiefs from his pocket. Even at such a young age his father had imposed on him the importance of being properly prepared, as one never knew when one would need to blow their nose, or offer a square piece of cloth to a crying girl. Binding the foot of his sister while keeping an eye out for that rotten farmer was not a use Bungo had had in mind. He helped Berylla to stand gingerly, and slowly they made their way to the outer fence.

Quickly though their movements were discovered, and sound of dogs chased them. They could hear the farmer yelling behind them, his voice growing ever louder. Berylla was slowing them down and they both knew it, but Bilbo refused to let go of her arm, dragging her along to the very edge of Farmer Maggot's field.

They tumbled over the side, sliding down the ridge and onto the road leading back to Woodhall, for this had been the first time Berylla had disobeyed Bella's ruling, and set foot outside her limits. Oh how she wished she had listened! Her foot throbbed something awful, and Bilbo's leg was bleeding from that dratted rock. Above them they could hear the dogs and old Maggot's cursing and so they limped off as quickly as they could, which wasn't very quick at all.

~{+*+}~

When confronted with the mass of wise-folk gathered at the steps of Meduseld, Fréawine and Fram began to worry. There were far too many, and most looked like they'd been dragged out by frightened relatives. They decided then that a test was in order.

When this was announced there were a lot of grumbles and some left immediately, but there were those that nodded at the wisdom of such a thing, and so the tests commenced.

They began by asking simple questions. Most were on the history of the country, small things anyone should know, but there were a few that measured a person for themselves and those were the most important. The ones who gave a good showing were permitted to remain no matter their knowledge on history, whilst others deemed unfit were turned aside. These, unsurprisingly, put up a great deal of fuss when this was announced, and it was only one a few heads were bashed together that they acquiesced to the Prince's orders.

They still grumbled though.

The next round of tests were ones of logic. They began with horses, reasoning out the times at which each finished a run. Most passed and a few didn't, but there were also a few that came to conclusions using steps the Princes hadn't even considered, and so they were asked to remain.

The last test was the trickiest of all. They had to tell a story of a feat that they had accomplished as magicians. Some went big, telling outrageous tales of splitting mountains. The Princes chuckled at these, before pointing out the still solid ranges. There was one though, an old man in a drab cloak who told neither tale nor performed a trick, just simply asserted that he was, in fact, a wizard. The crowd laughed, as did Fram, but Fréawine looked on and kept his own counsel.

~{+*+}~

After the debacle at Farmer Maggot's farm, Berylla and Bilbo were not allowed to wander as freely as they had before. It was now, Bella decided, that they should all go to Tuckburough to stay in the smial of the Old Took. There was now no more journeys alone walking along the Bywater, but they were now accompanied by many of their cousins, nieces and nephews. Bilbo thrived under such care, taking to the rambunctious nature of Tuckburough with ease. For Berylla it was a little more difficult, so used to just having Bilbo with her on her trips. Soon though she too relaxed, and the two became famous for outlandish tales told to the young ones.

By the time they were seventeen, and out-growing the gangly portion of teen-hood – for even the smallest of folk have that awkward phase I'm afraid – Berylla and Bilbo had travelled the length and bredth of the Shire. The first time they accomplished the journey there was a huge celebration in Bag End, as Belladonna believed there was nothing better than coming home to a good amount of pie and cake. All their favourites were there, peach pie for Berylla, and strawberry shortcake for Bilbo.

It was not long before they set out again.

This time though, they had an idea. They took with them a small notebook, in which Bilbo scribbled all manner of things. Berylla, having no talent for words, was content to listen beside her brother. When they returned to Bag End, they had many more notebooks than they started with, and they sat down to compile their Notes on the Shire.

In his later years Bilbo would loudly declare that it was _not fit for reading __**at all**_, and would persistently grab the original copy away from his irksome sibling. It had been re-written as Bilbo grew older, and included a great many more things of importance. Originally however they were quite proud of their accomplishment, and presented it to Belladonna on their next birthday. Within it were stories they had been told, illustrations of good and bad mushrooms, as well as a good collection of riddles. Perhaps the best part of the book though was the very last section, which Berylla and Bilbo had managed to write with the help of some passing Elves. It consisted of all the different alphabets they knew of, but not Khuzdul or their own as such things were rarely written down just in case. Belladonna was delighted with it, as all mothers are with their children, and cherished it always. Bungo puffed up at the idea of his children writing books, as it was a most respectable profession and it could only be the Baggins in them shining through.

~{+*+}~

After the last round of tests it was time for the remaining three men to be escorted into Meduseld. The first Man to enter the hall of the King was named Gléomer, and was known in his village in East Emnet for his tricks and talent with words. He took the hands of the king within his own, and prescribed the King with several stretching exercises to loosen his hands, followed by a warm bath infused with pain relieving herbs.

The second Man was from the Westfold, and his name was Bregdan, so-called for his many braids in his blonde hair. He ran his hands over the creaking hand joints of the king and suggested encasing the hand in warm wax, insisting the heat will aid in movement.

The Princes looked on warily. This was not what they had hoped for, as these were remedies their own physicians had tried and failed. They faced the old man, and waited for him to approach.

He shuffled slowly towards the dias, and made no attempt to hold the King's hands. He stated his name was Léofara, but gave no province for his home.

"You are old, King Fréa," he said gravely, "And nothing can halt the passage of time."

The King smiled and raised his hands, even though to do so caused nothing but pain. "Time has left me without the use of my hands, and without them I cannot rule."

"But there are others who _do_ have hands," Léofara said quietly.

The King's face twisted in anger.

"You dare to suggest I leave the throne?"

Léofara drew himself up to his full height, travel stained cloak falling to reveal robes of the deepest blue beneath.

"That is not what I am saying if you would but _listen_," insisted the Blue Wizard, who lent power to his words. "Long did you study at the arm of your father Aldor, and it has created a King of great Wisdom within you. What I suggest is that allow your son, Fréawine to study at yours. _He _could be your sword arm, and Rohan would remain protected."

The Princes shared a look, afraid the King would suspect some conspiracy, but Fréa laughed.

"I have heard of the wisdom of Wizards, and had never expected to find it within my lifetime." He announced finally. "Fréawine, my son, attend to me."

The Prince approached warily. "Yes, Father?"

"Let it be known that when a King of Rohan reaches the age of seventy, he is to lay down his sword, and pass it to his Heir." At this he clasped his son's hands around the hilt of Déorwine. "And his Heir shall tarry at the side of his King, and learn the wisdom of his long years."

This, it is told, is how the law came to be in Rohan, and the Blue Wizards was never seen in those lands again.

~{+*+}~

At the age of twenty years old, the twins spent the summer following Holman Gamgee around. He was, after all, the best gardener in the Shire and knew everything there was to know about plants. Holman, for his part, was very confused when he woke up one morning to find two eager helpers on his doorstep. He quickly put them to work however, and to his surprise had to fix very little of their mistakes. Bilbo and Berylla never told him until much later that they had enlisted Hamfast to teach them the basics, lest Holman throw them out the garden.

Before the summer ended, Belladonna and Bungo were presented with a new tome to peruse. This one was filled with drawings, some a little shakier than others (Berylla), and the names and uses for all sorts of plants. It was a book of the most useful sort, and it listed things from tomatoes to asphodel. There were even pressings of leaves at the back, with the name of each tree written neatly nearby. The leaves were Bilbo's idea, and a cunning one if he did say so himself. His sister tended to get bored when it came to writing their findings, so he had sent her to gather as many different leaves as she could find. Berylla, being a good sort, never told her brother that he was utterly transparent in his plot.

Their twenty-first birthday came and went with much celebration, drawings and riddles being the main gifts to the party-goers. It was a party to be treasured deeply by Bilbo and Berylla, because after that winter came. And the smiles stopped.

* * *

**Let me know what you think!**

**Much Hugs**

**Lizzie Hopscotch**


	3. Chapter 3

When spring came in the year 2912 it was with little fanfare and much grieving. Bilbo and Berylla, having lived alone in Bag End for the last of the Winter, were wary about facing the outside world. Berylla would ensconce herself in the smallest of places and not come out without much beseeching from her brother. Their mother's friend Gandalf stayed with them for a while, healing Berylla's wounds until they were faint scars, but soon he had to leave for business in Tharbad. Bilbo and Berylla hardly noticed his absence until the food in the pantry had run down and the two were forced to leave the Smial.

It was Bilbo who left first. He walked carefully down Bagshot Row, keeping his eyes firmly averted from the spot his mother and father were killed and eaten. His neighbours spotted the young hobbit and approached him immediately, offering sincere condolences and inquiries to his and his sister's health. It took him a long time to return from the market in the middle of Hobbiton. When he eventually returned to Bag End, laden down with a number of pies, it was to an exceedingly quiet hole. Placing his burdens in the pantry, he began to search each room for Berylla.

He found her curled in the closet of his parents' room. Her eyes were wide open and blank, knees tucked close and held with a white knuckled grip. He climbed in with her and held her hand, anchoring her to the here and now, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the ice in her memories. She could no longer bear the thought of going outside where so much danger lurked, and the fear quashed any desire to cross the borders surrounding the Shire.

It wasn't until their guardians Hildibrand and Donnamira Took, both siblings of Belladonna, came to Bag End that Berylla was forced to leave the safety of their home. As the Baggins twins were not yet of age it had been decided by their Grandfather that their aunt and uncle (both unmarried) would take care of them for the time being. As the two had been favourites of the twins in their visits to Tuckborough, the Thain didn't think there'd be a problem. He was wrong.

~{+*+}~

_This is the story of the chief of the Dúnedain, Aragost and the maiden Ioreth as it was told to Bilbo_. (With merely a few tweaks of artistic license.)

Aragost became the Chief of the Dúnedain in the year 2523 at the age of 92. Unlike the Men of Rohan, the Dúnedain were descendants of the people of Númenor and were blessed with long life. As chief, especially in the times of peace, Aragost searched for one whom he could call his wife. He travelled a great deal through the realms of Arnor and Gondor. He fought the Enemy in the new realm of Rohan and was victorious. He was known as a hero before he returned to the North.

However, it was the return journey that held greatest importance for him. He was struck with the fancy to visit his ancestral home, and so instead of returning to the Angle he turned north, and to the forgotten ruins of Fornost. As his horse walked through deadened streets he heard the sound of the purest song. Halting his horse he twisted in the saddle, hoping to spot the singer. As he searched however the music stopped and although he lingered for a while he saw no one. Eventually he told himself he was simply exhausted and imagined the song, and left the crumbling city behind.

Above him in a forgotten watchtower, the maiden Ioreth sat by her window and watched the crownless king leave.

~{+*+}~

Donnamira Took, it has been widely acknowledged, was a force to be reckoned with. Once she set her mind on a project she became absolutely focused upon it. Her current project: convincing Berylla to leave Bag End. She bustled about cleaning the place, putting broom and polish in her niece's hands when she appeared to be drawn back into painful memories. Donnamira was adamant that the only cure for the grief that followed the Winter was hard work. As such she had sent Bilbo off with her brother to the fields to work the earth, and Berylla was going to continue her studies in house and home. As they worked, she kept up a steady stream of comments. Some were ignored, others treated with sharp retorts.

"You don't want to disappoint your namesake, do you? Just think of what she would say!"

"My namesake was a rock, not Balbo's wife."

A few days later, when Berylla had refused to accompany her to market.

"And what am I to tell people when they ask after you? You haven't been seen in months!"

"Tell them I'm following their example in remaining within the safety of my home."

No one had any response to that. It had become the joint shame of all hobbits that while Bungo, Belladonna, and young Berylla had been attacked by wolves, those nearby had hidden and waited until the terrible sounds sank back into silence. It had only been luck that Berylla had survived: Gandalf and the Rangers had come thundering into Hobbiton during the attack and managed to save the tween. The hobbits of Bag Shot Row did not speak of their inaction, especially since they had only been out trying to help others, so great was their shame. Not even once did anyone mention it, until one day the hobbits woke and the shame was a little less, and eventually the moments where they could have helped were forgotten. By the time Bilbo was twenty three the hobbits of Hobbiton all agreed that Bungo and Bella were terribly brave hobbits, and that their deaths were a great and unavoidable tragedy.

Berylla never forgot, and the rage of it burned inside her. It warred with her fear of setting foot out of the Smial. Even though the springtime blooms were out in full force she was convinced hungry wolves were waiting to consume her as she stepped over the threshold. As with most things, it was Bilbo who helped her move outside. Bilbo, with his quiet fussing that reminded her of Bungo, who managed to convince her to walk to the back door of the hole and stand at the exit. Berylla stood on the threshold and watched him move around her. Even when she wasn't stood at the backdoor she watched him pick up various knick-knacks spread throughout the house and pocket them. Later they would appear on the mantelpiece, or placed carefully in cases. Belladonna's first attempt at crochet was placed under the fruit bowl in the kitchen, and Bungo's pipe was put carefully above the fire. They never spoke of their shared grief during the times she stood by the open door but when the hole was quiet, but for Hildibrand's snoring, the two would huddle together in either's bed and whisper little stories to each other in an attempt to chase it away.

While Berylla struggled to face the outside world, Bilbo, for all his confidence before, became quieter and less inclined to smiles. For him, Aunt Donnamira's prescription of hard work was a lifeline, as when he was focusing on seedlings he wasn't thinking of Bungo and Bella and his broken sister. He had yet to step into his father's study, and hadn't dared to touch a book in months. He focused only on the fields, the small things of his parents, and waiting for the day Berylla finally made it outside.

~{+*+}~

In the months that followed Aragost's return to the Northern Tribes his thoughts turned often towards Fornost and the mysterious song he had heard there. One day, tired of turning the events over and over again in his mind, he saddled his horse and made for the city. When he got there he was greeted only by silence and the sadness which runs inherent in forgotten places.

Ioreth brushed brushed her hair slowly, making the activity last as long as possible. It ended quickly though and she sighed in boredom. It had been many a year since she had been locked in here by her mad fiancé, who only appeared once a week to give her supplies. She had no idea what he had told her parents about her disappearance and she held out hope that one day she might be free of the stone prison. She watched the birds fly through the stone buildings as she sat huffing at the window, absently tracing patterns on the ledge, when the unmistakable sound of a horse echoed through the streets. She leaned out slightly, letting the blonde curtain of her hair fan out against the stone. It was the man from before, she realised, recognising the colours he wore and the markings of his horse. He appeared to be waiting for something, and so Ioreth scanned the landscape curiously, but nothing was approaching nor did anything seem amiss below.

Bored, she began to sing quietly to herself, the Fall of Gil-Galad one of the few songs she remembered in full. Immediately the Man's head snapped to attention and she fell silent, curious at what held his focus. At the silence, Aragost slumped in his saddle. He was sure he had heard it, even recognised the tune. Thinking quickly he decided to sing in response, hoping he had guessed the quiet song correctly.

_His sword was long, his lance was keen._

_His shining helm afar was seen;_

_The countless stars of heaven's field_

_Were mirrored in his silver shield._

Ioreth couldn't help her gasp as the words reached her. It was her! She was why he was here! Heart pounding with joy she joined him for the next verse, praying that this time he might spot her.

_But long ago he rode away,_

_And where he dwelleth none can say;_

_For into darkness fell his star_

_In Mordor where the shadows are._

Aragost scanned the land relentlessly as the verse finished but, like before, he could spot no one, just a pale yellow flag hanging from a watchtower. A heavy sigh escaped his chest. Downtrodden, he turned his horse.

"I must truly be going mad," he muttered to himself. He wasn't exhausted this time, and yet he'd heard the woman singing clear as daylight.

"No!" A voice called out desperately. "Please don't go!"

Aragost drew his sword at the cry, wheeling his horse around with his knees.

"Who speaks? Show yourself!" He demanded.

"I'm up here," came the reply, "In the watchtower."

Aragost frowned in confusion as what he thought was a yellow rag moved, and what was unmistakeably an arm waved down at him.

~{+*+}~

By summertime Berylla was able to walk up and down Bagshot Row without feeling the need to bolt inside. She smiled at the progress she made, and felt a little of her old self returning. It was in the nature of the Shire to help things grow stronger, and although the pain and grief of the Fell Winter remained, the ever-present sunshine helped to chase away lingering nightmares. She felt old longings stirring, a silent wish to see beyond the borders, but they were tempered by a fear she had yet to shake.

Bilbo was continuing quietly, enjoying the peace of the garden and a pipe with Uncle Hildibrand. He wasn't quite his old self yet, but Berylla thought that neither of them ever would be again. They passed like that for two years, slowly healing and putting themselves back together, although a few pieces were bent and little out of place.

It was as things were getting better that the scruffy looking Ranger arrived. He greeted Aunt Donnamira kindly, inquired as to where he might find Bag End and appeared very relieved when informed he was at the right place. The offer of tea was given and then declined as he had to return to Bree quickly. He left behind a carefully wrapped square package with a letter placed ever so neatly on the kitchen table. Bilbo and Berylla sat silently side by side in front of it.

"Do we open it?" Bilbo asked eventually, eyeing the letter warily. The cursive script reading their mother's name was stark against the parchment.

"We should find out who it's from," Berylla replied, "and why they sent it." After all, didn't everyone already _know_? Bilbo nodded and reached for the letter shakily. The sound of the envelope tearing filled the silence, and Berylla rubbed her fingers together through the wrapping of the package. Bilbo started in surprise next to her.

"What? What is it?"

"It's in _Elvish._"

"Really? Can you read it?" Bilbo was always more proficient in reading different languages. Their mother thought that learning Elvish would be useful, especially as she had made many friends in Rivendell on her travels. After their deaths he had kept at it, becoming a semi-proficient translator. He gave Berylla an unimpressed look and she half-smiled in return.

"I think…I think it's from her friends in Rivendell," Bilbo said haltingly. "There's something about it being a birthday gift, and a hope for a visit? There's some enquiries about us, even, she must have been writing to them. Urm…and then there's an anecdote? _My boys, Elladan and Elrohir, were also troublesome at that age, perhaps that is the nature of twins_. We weren't troublesome!"

"We were, Bilbo, we were absolutely troublesome," Berylla teased lightly, "in fact you were the most troublesome of all."

"And just for that, dear sister, I won't tell you who it's from."

"Awwwwww, Bilbo!" She pouted. "I could just read it myself you know." She made a grab for the letter, but Bilbo held it just out of reach.

Bilbo gave her a level look followed by a raised eyebrow. "Alright, so I couldn't. Tell me? Please?"

"_Lord Elrond_."

"Lord? Mum was friends with an Elvish _Lord?_"

Bilbo nodded, a smile creeping onto his face. It was nice, he thought, to be able to talk about their parents again without pain ripping through his chest.

"So, what do you think is in there?"

Bilbo squared his shoulders. "Only one way to find out."

Tearing away the wrapping he found a single sheet of parchment, the same kind as the letter, as well as two books.

"_To continue the studies of your children._" Bilbo read, turning his attention to the books.

"They're in Westron," said Berylla as she opened the top one. "It's a grammar book for Sindarin."

"And this one is a dictionary," said Bilbo. "Both are more detailed than the ones in Father's study."

"Definitely," Berylla agreed. "This one's even got a section on Quenya."

"Really? Let's see."

Bilbo poured eagerly over the books, his quick eyes drinking in the new information. Berylla watched him with a smile, even as a pit began to form in her stomach.

"Bilbo… I don't think they know," she said slowly, testing the words on her tongue.

"Who knows what?" He blinked owlishly.

"I mean her friends. The Elves. I don't think they know she's… dead." She choked on the last word. Bilbo looked at the book, unsure of what to do.

"Should we write and tell them?" he suggested.

Berylla didn't answer. An idea was beginning to take root inside her, an idea that once upon a time she would have grasped at with both hands. Now she examined it carefully, patting the earth around it like she would with a new seedling.

"What if," she said carefully, "we just…_told _them?"

~{+*+}~

Aragost approached the watchtower carefully, blinking several times at the odd sight before him. There was indeed someone singing in the ruins of Fornost, and they weren't as imaginary as he feared. His confusion lay, however, in why a young woman was in the watchtower in the first place. And why she didn't just leave it.

"My lady," he began. "Who are you and why are you in there? Come down and speak with me."

Ioreth took in the stranger as he approached. He was handsome, she had to admit, and he had an air of kindness about him.

"My name is Ioreth, my Lord, and I am trapped here."

"Trapped? How?"

"The door is blocked and sealed," she explained. "I am delivered food by pulling up a basket with a rope." Her arms had grown quite strong at this point. "Who are you?"

"I am called Aragost," came the reply. "If you have rope, why can you not lower yourself down?"

Here she blushed at her own weakness, not wanting to reveal such a thing to the man below.

"I am afraid," she admitted. "If I leave here then he will find me, and I have no skill at surviving alone. I don't…" she choked on the words, unable to say them, but he knew. Aragost saw her fear and spoke it for her.

"You do not want to die cold and afraid."

She shook her head sadly.

Aragost's gaze hardened, disliking seeing such an expression on a face built for joyful smiles.

"Come down, Lady Ioreth," he said calmly. "And I will see you home."

"Truly?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes, you have my word that your captor will not set hands on you again."

A bright smile burst across her lips like sunlight shines through the treetops. Aragost felt a little of the loneliness that plagued him vanish.

~{+*+}~

When Berylla first left the Shire she was 23 years old. Her aunt, her uncle, and her beloved brother Bilbo were all stringently opposed to the plan. A letter was enough, they said, there was no need to leave the Shire at all. Berylla simply shook her head and tried to explain as best she could.

"I have to leave, Bilbo," she said a few days before she left, "if I stay here... I never will. I don't want to be afraid of the outside world anymore."

"But it's so soon!" he protested. "Surely waiting another year won't hurt? They're Elves. They don't notice the passing of time for the Small Folk."

"Well, that's a terrible thing to say! If it's true then someone should remind them," she added, gratified to see Bilbo smile at the thought of little Berylla scolding beings twice her size.

"If I don't leave now," she continued quietly, "I'll always be afraid."

Bilbo nodded. Although he didn't understand it himself, he knew that his sister took after Belladonna more than he did. He also knew that his sister was unhappy staying in Bag End, surrounded by the mementos of their parents which brought him such comfort.

"Alright," he agreed finally. He slapped his thighs and stood up, plastering a smile across his face. "Then let's get you ready."

They spent the next few days scurrying through the hole, unearthing things Belladonna used in her travels, trying to think what Berylla would need.

"A map, obviously," said Bilbo, tucking one into a pack, "and you'll need a tinder-box, a first aid kit, clothes obviously," his voice softened to a mumble as he started to converse with himself instead of Berylla.

"How do you know so much?" Berylla teased, enjoying making her brother squirm.

"I- I _read,_ thank you!" he squeaked.

Berylla laughed and caught his hand. "Thank you."

He nodded and smiled, thumbing his braces in a manner reminiscent of Bungo.

"Rope," she said decisively, "rope, money, and a knife."

"Yes," Bilbo agreed, "and then it's simply the food to sort."

"I can do this," Berylla said to reassure herself.

"Yes, you can."

The two smiled at each other before going back to planning Berylla's trip.

Two days after this conversation Berylla was stood outside of Bag End with a pack strapped to her back. Her pack was filled with all sorts of useful things: money, rope, food, clothes, tinderbox, and a map. She had it all set and sorted. She wore her lightest dress, bright yellow with paler yellow hatching. She cut a sunflower bloom from the garden on an impulse and tucked it into her dark, curly hair. The books sat at the bottom of her bag. After a talk with Bilbo they had decided to return the books to the Elves as the intended recipient couldn't receive them. This, though, had not stopped Bilbo from taking frantic notes from pertinent sections before they were packed away.

Berylla was ready to leave the Shire. She knew that as soon as she started walking she wouldn't stop until she made it to Rivendell, it was just that first step that was causing her trouble.

"I can do this," she said to herself, taking her brother's words to heart. It was a bright and calm spring morning. It would be just like when she was younger and she and Bilbo would tear through the Shire without a thought. "I can do this," she repeated softly.

"You can," Bilbo insisted behind her, "all you have to do is follow the Great East Road."

"And that's it."

"That's it."

She faced her brother and took his hands, making her case to him one more time: "Come with me?"

"If I do, who will keep those dreadful Sackville-Bagginses out?" Bilbo chuckled. "No, my place is here."

"Please?" she begged again.

"No, you are simply stalling, sister-mine." Bilbo admonished her, and then he pulled her close to embrace her.

"_May Yvanna, Vána, and Oromë keep you safe,_" he whispered in Hobbitish.

"_And may your garden bloom ever brighter, darling brother_."

"Goodbye, Berylla," Bilbo said sadly.

"I will come back," she promised, and turned to take the first step.

~{+*+}~

Ioreth rode with Aragost for five days until they reached the home of the Dúnedain. In that time she and Aragost grew closer and closer as he taught her the skills she would need to survive alone. Ioreth, much to her surprise, found herself learning quickly. She even enjoyed the lessons as they gave her a sense of independence she had never before experienced. Their journey passed quickly and all too soon they found themselves at the Angle and the largest of the Dúnedain camps.

The men and women under Aragost's charge approached him with smiles that fell into expressions of wary distrust when they caught sight of Ioreth. They had heard of his wanderings through Fornost and were afraid that Ioreth was an enchantment set by the Witch-King himself, put there to entrap their line and destroy them.

"Aragost!" a large man greeted him exuberantly, slapping his back in glee. His name was Ohtar and he was a long-time friend to Aragost. It was to him that Aragost confessed he had heard singing in the ruins of Fornost. "You had a good trip, then?"

"Yes, my friend. I met the Lady Ioreth whilst there, trapped within the tallest watchtower," Aragost quickly explained, as he had seen the wariness and wished to dispel it as early as possible. The surrounding people exchanged glances, turning to examine the newcomer more thoroughly. Ioreth looked down at her toes, not wanting to see them pass judgement on her. She was a mess, she knew it. Her skirt was stained something terrible, the laces of her bodice were loose and worst of all her hair had become utterly unmanageable.

"The tallest watchtower? How on earth did you get there?" they asked her. Aragost, too, was curious to hear the answer. He had yet to ask Ioreth for her story, despite his longing to know her better.

"I'm afraid I don't know," Ioreth replied. "I was knocked unconscious, and when I awoke I was imprisoned. The doors were locked and there was no way to open them from within. The only exit was the window."

"Do you at least know who put you there?" Ohtar said.

Ioreth hesitated, not wanting them to think badly of her, but decided that the truth was the best path to take.

"The man I was betrothed to by my father."

~{+*+}~

It took Berylla two days to reach the town of Bree. Her first night alone she spent within Brandy Hall who were used to putting up travellers for the night. It took her a bit of the way off the East Road, but she was confident she could make up for lost time. So far the journey had been very pleasant, although a few hobbits had startled to see her walk brazenly away from the safety of the Shire. They would, no doubt, carry their mutterings and discontent to her brother. Bilbo, she was sure, would greet them with a smile and some cake, before dismissing the words out of hand. As she lay in bed at Brandy Hall her thoughts kept returning to her brother. Guilt gnawed at her for leaving, for even _suggesting_ such a thing, and as such her dreams were filled with disquiet.

In the daylight hours that feeling of unease vanished, and her feet merrily guided her along the path. She was lucky, she thought, to have found a group of Hobbits also travelling to Bree with a cart who did not mind giving her a ride. The hobbits of Buckland often traded with the Big and Small Folk of Bree, and so they were filled with wise words to pass on to a fellow traveller. They told her that the only inn to stay in was the Prancing Pony, and although folk may seem rough there, the landlord Butterbur would take care of her. Berylla listened attentively, determined not to get swept away in the unfamiliar town.

Once they arrived in Bree the hobbits parted ways, the majority of them heading to the markets, but one, Hamson Hayward, offered to accompany her to the inn. Grateful for the company and the help, Berylla accepted. All too soon he left her at the door of the Prancing Pony, but not before extracting a promise from her to return to Buckland on her way home. Squaring her shoulders and neatening her bright yellow skirt, she strode into the inn.

The first thing that struck her was how _loud _it was. Louder than the Green Dragon, even! Rough-looking men sat together, smoking and drinking, and hobbits laughed raucously with them. She approached the bar cautiously, well aware both that the Big Folk rarely looked down and that she had no desire to be stepped on.

"Excuse me?" she asked, hesitantly, sure that no-one would hear her over the din. She was proved wrong when a heavily moustachioed face poked its head over the top of the bar.

"Good day to you, little Mistress!" he greeted her jovially. "What brings you to Bree?"

"It is indeed a wonderful day!" Berylla agreed. "I'm passing through Bree, and I was wondering if I could stay here for the night. My name is Berylla Baggins."

"Why of course! We've got some nice hobbit-sized rooms available. Would you be wanting some lunch right now?"

"No thank you, I've already eaten. But do you know where I might stock up on some supplies?"

"Absolutely. Tell you what, I'll just grab old Bob, and he can take you to the markets. How about that?"

"Oh that would be fantastic!" _What luck!_ Berylla thought, _I had no idea these Big Folk could be so kind._ Berylla was relieved to discover that the tales she'd heard growing up, of the selfishness of Men, were not true. Bob, as it turned out, was both a hobbit and not too pleased with his new assignment. Nonetheless Berylla attempted to keep up a semblance of conversation. Bob trudged along beside the chattering chit, irritated at being given the task of accompanying a Shire simpleton. It was well known in Bree that the hobbits that lived in the town were far more civilised and educated than their bumbling Shire cousins. Bob resolved to reach the market as quickly as possible and then leave the foolish girl there.

Berylla was thrilled to see the markets of Bree. They were far larger than the ones in Hobbiton, and there were things she had never seen before, not even in the down of Michel Delving. The streets were filled with bustling people. Women with large skirts sold bread and pastries as they walked, men with thunderous voices competed with each other, each trying to grasp the attention of passers-by. There was one stall filled with colourful fabrics and another that sold wooden carvings. A dwarf sat outside that one, slowly whittling away at a block in his hands. She was so entranced by all the new sights that Berylla never noticed Bob slip away, nor the Man about to careen into her. He knocked her to the ground with a nary an apology, and Berylla dragged herself up slowly. Looking around for Bob, she finally noticed his absence. She felt a small twinge of hurt at that, before resolving that someone who didn't care about her so blatantly wasn't worth that much thought. She dusted down her skirt, and was dismayed to find her hands were cut and leaving specks of blood on the bright fabric.

"Oh and it's been such a good day too!" she complained. Huffing at her misfortune she continued on deeper into the market, remembering her mother's words about such happenings.

"A small scrape like this is nothing," Belladonna used to say. "It's merely a small dip in the adventure, an unpleasantness easily forgotten."

Nodding firmly, Berylla allowed the busy markets to swallow her.

~{+*+}~

"I come from a small village in Bree-Land. My father is a merchant there, a seller of the finest pastries in the markets. My three sisters already have husbands and childrens, and I was the last to stay in his household. He was approached several times for my hand by men desperate to apprentice under him, but it was Sidney Thistlewool who finally convinced him. He came to us as a young man down on his luck, kind and willing to learn. I will confess to having been charmed by him and his gentle manners, but then so were we all.

"My father quickly agreed to a marriage between us, especially when he saw that we were becoming good friends. I was his last daughter, you see, and he was determined to make me a happy match. After the announcement was made, Sidney began to grow more covetous of me. He would ask, kindly at first, that I let him know where I'm going. I thought it was simply worry for me, but I slowly became aware that he was watching at all times. He would quiz me on my actions, particularly if I conversed with other men – even my own family!

"He was spiralling in his jealousy, no matter how irrational it appeared. Then, he began to vanish for days, and when he returned he was far more jovial. It was as though the old Sidney had returned to us. My father alone was suspicious, but I think he thought Sidney was being unfaithful to his pledge, and not the wickedness that was truly afoot. Eventually, however, his behaviour took a darker turn, and I found myself spirited away in the middle of the night. When I awoke I was in the watchtower. It was clear that the room had been prepared, and it became clear where Sidney had been vanishing too. On the one hand I felt satisfaction that he had not been disloyal, and on the other dismayed to find myself imprisoned.

"He would come to visit me once every few days. He told me that my family was fine, and assured of my safety. I am unsure what he told them but it quickly became clear that no one was looking. After one such visit I refused to talk to him. He would bring me food, and then shout at me for my silence which became my only defence against him. He never laid a hand on me, besides that night when he took me to Fornost, but his anger was a terrible thing to behold. After his anger was spent he would bring me presents in attempts to win my forgiveness. It was then that I broke and told him the only way to have that would be to return me home. He snarled and left at that, and did not come back for several days afterwards.

"It was on that day that something new arrived in Fornost, for I had taken to watching the world pass from the high window. As I was singing to myself the sound of hoof beats echoed through the streets. I stopped singing and tried to spot the rider, but the hoof beats faded away. I thought the rider would not return, but he did, and now I am here."

Ioreth fell silent after her tale was done, as did the people around her. Aragost felt his hands twitching with the urge to take her in his arms.

"And we're glad to have you," he assured her.

"Aye!" Ohtar agreed. "And we should welcome you properly, with beer and song!"

~{+*+}~

Berylla returned to the Prancing Pony in the evening laden down with supplies. Butterbur greeted her with questions about her afternoon and guided her to her room. She didn't mention Bob and his abandonment, content to relay all the fantastic things she'd seen already. Once inside her room she ferreted out a piece of parchment from her bag, as well as quill and ink, ready to pen a letter to her brother. She may have only been gone two days, but she knew he would worry and hopefully this would help. In it she related the market at Bree, the antics of their distant cousins at Brandy Hall, and a story she'd heard from the dwarven woodworker, about a strange monster who lived in mines. He'd laughed at her wide-eyed expression after the tale was done, telling her that it was simply a children's story and that there was no such thing. Berylla had laughed with him, although she had the niggling feeling that the story would return to her in the dark watches of the night.

Once the letter was sealed and the address written she took it down to the main room with her, intent on asking Butterbur how best to get the letter to the Shire. She was quickly informed that the best way would be to ask one of the Rangers as they had been known to travel that way frequently.

"Strange folk, those Rangers," Butterbur said quietly, "most round here don't trust them."

Berylla nodded and thanked him for the advice, but she knew the Rangers could be trusted. They'd helped the Shire during the Fell Winter, after all, and she often overheard Bounders talking about the Rangers that helped protect the borders of the Shire.

"Do you know where I may find one?" she asked politely, to which Butterbur gestured over to a table in the back where a scruffy and travel-worn man sat.

"There's one of them. Folks round here call him Piper because he's always smoking."

"Perhaps he's spent time around hobbits then," Berylla suggested quietly, thinking of the widespread habit in the Shire. Butterbur chuckled lightly before going back to washing the dishes. Steeling herself, she walked towards the Ranger.

"Excuse me, Master Piper? Would you be able to help me?" she enquired hesitantly.

"I've met hobbits before." He replied.

"Excuse me?"

"Hobbits. I've met them before, and they do indeed have a great love of pipeweed."

Berylla blushed to think that somehow he'd heard her from where he was sitting. Or maybe he could read lips? His eyes crinkled in amusement at her obvious embarrassment.

"No harm, little Mistress. Please, sit. What's wrong?"

Relieved, Berylla accepted the invitation.

"I'm trying to find a Ranger heading in the direction of the Shire. I'm hoping they would be able to deliver a letter for me. I'll pay, of course," she added hastily, not wanting him to think she was looking for charity.

"Letter for a jilted lover?" the ranger asked.

"My brother," Berylla replied frostily, not seeing the need for such rudeness.

"Apologies," he inclined his head. "I can arrange for the letter to be delivered, no worries." He took the letter from her and pocketed it. "Why do you not deliver the letter yourself?"

"I'm headed in the opposite direction," Berylla confessed, "but my brother worries, so I'm hoping this will help."

"You're headed East?" The Ranger chuckled. "Are you sure I cannot simply escort you back to the Shire? You hardly look full grown!"

At this Berylla bristled. She was well aware she had a youthful face but she hardly saw why it would be any of this man's business.

"I'm fully capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much." She stood and gave the Ranger the frostiest stare she could. "I'm grateful for your help with the letter, here is your payment." She put a few gold coins on the table. "Good evening."

She huffed and left the chuckling man behind her, having had quite enough of such rudeness.

She decided instead to go to bed. Despite previous misgivings she slept quite soundly, and awoke a few hours after dawn. She dressed in her second outfit, as her yellow skirt still had stains from her fall the day before. This dress was green and blue with a blended pattern and a matching collar over the bodice. A hurried breakfast and a friendly goodbye to Butterbur she was ready to leave the Prancing Pony and head out into the Wild. She hoped she had brought with her enough supplies, but was fairly certain that she would have to ration it out. She giggled at what the neighbours would think if they heard she had only eaten three meals a day, instead of the customary seven. Her stomach rebelled at the thought of such a food but Berylla resolved to just make the best of it.

"You can't be heading out looking like that, surely," a rude voice interrupted her pleasant musings. It was the Ranger from the night before lounging against the inn wall.

"So what if I am?" she challenged him. "What business is it of yours?"

"It's my business because I would hate to stumble across your remains in the Wild. I don't think that would be the news you'd want travelling back to your brother."

Berylla blanched at the thought.

"I still don't see why you're interested. I don't even know your name!"

"Nor I yours, Mistress. But in the interest of fairness, and because I've been a bit rude to you ("A bit!") my name is Arathorn, son of Arador."

"Berylla Baggins," she replied, "and if not these, what do you suggest?"

He is rude, she told herself, but he knows more about travelling than I do. Just because he has rough manners doesn't mean I shouldn't listen to him.

"Well, for starters you need clothes that blend in better. Ones made of stronger fabric, too." He pushed himself off the wall and guided her through the streets and towards the markets. "We'll find something suitable here. You can trade in your yellow one for it, and make room in your pack for more supplies."

Seeing the wisdom in such a thing, Berylla acquiesced, although she was wary about what Arathorn could potentially choose for her. In the end she needn't have worried. The shopkeeper was thrilled at the patterning of her yellow dress, saying it was the perfect material for another customer's quilt. As a result, Berylla quickly became outfitted with a light dress. No patterns, which were custom with hobbits, just simple block colours. The sleeves and outer skirt were brown, while the inner skirt was green. The bodice was fashioned in a similar style, with only the middle piece being green while the sides joined with the sleeves in being brown. A set of brown buttons ran down the middle of the bodice. A thick collar of the same green was added, as well as a brown cloak, as Arathorn said it could get cold in the night in the Wild.

Once she was deemed properly outfitted, and her coin purse lighter, she and Arathorn headed East out of Bree.

"But what about my letter?" Berylla asked once she realised she wasn't going to get rid of the man.

"Don't worry, I sent some friends with it. Your brother will have no need for worry."

Berylla sighed in relief.

Arathorn studied his small companion as they followed the East Road. He wasn't sure what had driven him to decide to accompany her. Perhaps it was because she looked far too young to be travelling alone, or the scars decorating her left hand. It could even have been the way she had responded to his rudeness with fire. Many hobbits he had met previously had wilted under such treatment, leading him to believe they were not a particularly strong willed race. This one, however, had fought back with frosty manners and an attitude that was likely to get her killed. So deep in his musings of her character that he had forgotten to ask a vital question.

"So, Miss Baggins, where exactly are we going?"

"Rivendell," she replied.

"Ah! The hobbits and their fascination with elves, it rivals their love of pipeweed!" he jested, chuckling at her flush as she was reminded of her comments the previous night.

"That's not why I'm going," she snapped.

"Oh? Then why?"

"Because they believe their friend is alive when she isn't. It isn't right to let them continue believing that," she finally replied after a minute of thought.

Arathorn studied the young hobbit woman beside him again, taking in the frown and unhappy mouth. It was obvious he had hit a nerve. This friend she spoke of must have been dear to Berylla as well as the Elves. He didn't ask any more questions and they continued their walk in silence.

~{+*+}~

It had been three days since Ioreth and Aragost had arrived at the Angle. With her quickness to laugh and willingness to learn Ioreth had quickly been accepted by the Dúnedain people. Aragost watched as she moved through the houses helping the women collect the laundry. She fit in here, he thought. She made people happy, she made _him_ happy, and he wanted nothing more than for her to stay. Ohtar sat beside him, smiling in bemusment at his lord's fascination with the woman as it was so unlike Aragost to be so taken by a lady.

"Will you take her back?" he finally said.

"Back where?" Aragost asked.

"To her family." Ohtar replied. "If she asks, will you take her home?" The unspoken words "Or will you be like Thistlewool?" rested between them.

"Yes," Aragost replied. "If she asks, I will."

Ioreth didn't ask, though. A week passed before she even thought about it. She was so enraptured with the world outside the walls of Fornost she had failed to think of her father or her siblings. She was making a new family with the Dúnedain here and as she moved she could always feel Aragost's gaze on her, although she never actually caught him looking. A hope had kindled in her heart that maybe she could stay, that maybe Aragost and she could be _more_.

The peace that had settled through her days was not to last. It was as she was eating some fresh bread that the homesickness hit. The crisp crust and soft middle were a reminder of her father's ovens and the smiles that were shared in the shop. With a heavy weight on her chest she approached Aragost, who watched her with concerned eyes. He knew, somehow he knew, that this was it, and their time here at the Angle was over.

"Aragost," she asked slowly, "will you take me home?"

~{+*+}~

"This journey would go a lot faster if you would get a pony," Arathorn pointed out three hours into their walk. "It would be a lot less exhausting too."

"A hobbit does not ride a pony," Berylla said firmly. "We are creatures of the earth, and as such our feet don't leave it."

"Suit yourself," came the response, and he started to hum a merry tune. Despite all her misgivings Berylla was coming to accept Arathorn's presence, and his company wasn't so bad once you got over his blunt manner.

Dusk settled and the two searched for a place to make camp. Well, Berylla could admit, _Arathorn_ searched. She simply followed and hoped he knew where was best. In the end they settled under a rocky outcrop that would shelter their fire. Arathorn was not blind to Berylla's unhelpfulness in finding the spot and became determined then and there that he would teach her the necessary skills to survive. He made a fire quickly, before showing her to correct way to create a fire without a flint.

"I do know how to make a fire, you know." Berylla told him eventually, even as the fire failed to catch.

"Oh? Just like how you knew how to find a safe campsite?"

"I know the places in the Shire!" she protested. "It's just…_different_ out here."

Arathorn's face changed from teasing to serious in a heartbeat.

"It is different, Berylla. The Wild is dangerous, and one so unprepared as you could easily perish out here. You have to be careful, and to be careful you have to _learn_." He placed the sticks in her hand, and this time she bent to her task without complaint.

Over the next few days this became routine. Arathorn showed her several useful knots, the correct wood to use for a fire, and how to throw a punch. It was on the fifth day that their supplies finally ran out. Although she knew it would happen, Berylla was nonetheless distraught by this discovery as hobbits love nothing more than food, and allowed herself a good five minutes to wallow in such misfortune. Then Arathorn snapped her out of it, and gave her a quick lesson on what is and isn't edible in the Wild.

"You need to be careful of things with spines," he told her as they searched, "as well as things leaking sap."

"And the plants that smell like almonds, and the ones that look like dill," Berylla parroted back at him. "We do have poisonous plants in the Shire as well." She was getting very fed up at his insistence of treating her like a child.

"Then you should be able to find things without mishap," Aragost retorted, picking up a mushroom.

"No! Not that one," Berylla called out, "that one's poisonous."

"How do you know? It looks like all the others."

"The patterns on it are different. That's a panther cap, it will make you hallucinate and cause your organs to fail."

Aragost was tempted to disbelieve her, after all he'd eaten mushrooms before that looked exactly like that one. Taking in her pale face and earnest eyes however, he decided not to risk it. He had heard somewhere that Hobbits had a love of mushrooms that rivalled their love of pipeweed, and so it made sense that she would recognise a poisonous one. In the end they achieved a veritable feast of plant life, although Berylla insisted on checking each mushroom, finding two more panther caps. ("They look like Blusher Mushrooms," she explained, "which are perfectly fine except when they're growing next to these ones.") For her part Berylla had found a nice patch of daisies that she knew were perfectly good to eat, as well as some marigolds. Aragost warned her though not to eat too many of them, as they were toxic in large amounts. Berylla merely gave him a withering look before saying, quite calmly given her frustration with the man, that she had been taught about plants ever since she could roll over and was well aware what was and wasn't poisonous _thank you very much_. Arathorn apologised almost immediately, after getting over his shock at the little woman's temper, and Berylla gravely forgave him for his condescending manner.

It became a game as the days passed to see what kind of plants they could find and add to the cram Aragost found in the bottom of his pack. It wasn't the nicest of meals, but it was filling. They boiled cattails and clovers, but avoided the asparagus. The plantain was a lucky find, but many of the leaves were too bitter to eat. It was on the fifth day from Bree that Arathorn suddenly notched an arrow and let it fly, hitting a deer Berylla hadn't even noticed.

"Meat for dinner!" Arathorn said triumphantly. "You can learn how to field dress a deer."

Berylla could barely contain her enthusiasm.

If possible it was worse than she imagined. When she slit open the belly the stench forced her to recoil but she forced herself to continue and fight her rising gorge. Blood stained her hands and dress but Arathorn made sure she persevered, calling it essential knowledge. After showing her the correct way, and warning her not to puncture them, she slowly cut the entrails from the spine. He continued to give pointers as she worked until she snapped up at him: "How is this relevant when I can't use a bow?"

This stopped him for a second, before he shrugged and offered to teach her. She raised an eyebrow at that, eyeing the bow he used. It was, without a doubt, much too big for her.

"When we can get you a bow of your own then," he conceded. Berylla grimaced at him, and then pulled the last of the entrails out.

Arathorn was very proud of her achievement. So proud, in fact, that he took over for her, and sent her to wash in the slow stream. Berylla happily handed over the disgusting task and took great pleasure in scrubbing the stench off her hands. Her dress, she realised, was a lost cause. No matter how much she wet it the blood would not come out. As they walked it dried and stiffened the fabric to create a dark brown stain.

The deer lasted them many days as they marched along the Eastern road. They were about two weeks from Rivendell when Berylla noticed a strange shape on top of a hill to the north of them.

"What's that?" she asked.

"That's Weathertop. It used to be the great watchtower of Amon Sûl, but that fell into ruin when Arnor fell."

"Can we go see it?" Berylla asked eagerly. "I've never seen anything so _big_."

Arathorn gave a sharp smile, thinking of all the history that happened on that famous hill. The hobbit wants to see because it's _big. _They diverted their course and made good time, getting to the base before nightfall. Berylla's eyes grew brighter as they drew nearer.

"Come on Arathorn! Last one to the top is a rotten egg!" she cried before scrambling up the path leading upwards.

"You do realise I have longer legs than you It's hardly a challenge."

"Then it's a good thing I have a head start!" she called back.

She laughed as she ran, ignoring the pain in her side. Behind her she could hear Arathorn's heavy footfalls. He insisted that for a man he was very quiet when he walked, but compared to Berylla his footsteps were as loud as hoof beats.

"Oh, wow," she breathed when she reached the top. The sun was close to the horizon, bathing the land before her in red light. She could see for miles in every direction, from the North Downs to the Last Bridge. It was spectacular. She even fancied she could make out the top of the Old Forest way off in the distance. "Bilbo would have loved this," she said. A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she shucked off her pack to find some parchments while some wild berries created an adequate ink. When Arathorn reached her he found her faithfully detailing everything she could see. It wasn't done with the same skill Bilbo possessed, but she hoped it captured the spirit of the place. She drew the ruins as Arathorn made a small fire in an alcove, well aware that being so high up made them visible, and so he hoped to shadow it from sight.

"I thought this trip was simply to go to Rivendell," Arathorn commented.

"It is. But it can't hurt to explore along the way, can it?" she said happily, chewing on the dried out deer meat. Silently, she wondered what else there was to explore.

~{+*+}~

It took a week to prepare everything. Aragost knew that he was stalling but he covered it with excuses. After all, it wouldn't do run out of supplies so quickly and the horses had earned a rest. His last excuse was that he wanted to give Ioreth enough time to say goodbye to all her new friends. In the end though, Ohtar clapped him on the back and chucked him on his horse.

The journey to Bree was remarkably similar to that they had shared previously. They shared songs round the fire, and Ioreth was, as usual, an apt student. She learned the proper seat for riding alone on her horse quickly, and soon the movements of trot and canter became comfortable for her. They travelled up the Greenway, seeing several caravans from which they bought food. One night, about halfway along the road, Ioreth was quiet and withdrawn. It was not at all like she had been previously, even on the way to the Angle.

"Ioreth? What's wrong?" Aragost sat down beside her place at the fire, hesitant to do more than simply lend her his presence.

"I'm afraid," she finally admitted. "What if they believed whatever lies Sidney told? What if they didn't and simply never bothered to look for me? Or what if they force me to go back to him?"

She shook lightly beside him. Deciding to take the risk he put his arm around her and pulled her close, lending his warmth.

"Your family loves you, Ioreth. There is no reason to think that way."

"But what if-"

"No. No 'what ifs', that's the way to madness. You will always have a family, Ioreth, be it the one you've had since birth or the one you've made with the Dúnedain, and _that_ is what you need to hold onto now." He felt her nod against his chest, where she remained throughout the night.

Four days later they came to the gate of the village of Bree. The gatekeeper waved them through without a fuss and got a boy to lead the horses to the stable. Aragost flicked a silver coin at him for his trouble. As they walked through the streets Aragost noticed that more and more people began to stare at Ioreth, who was stubbornly pretending it wasn't happening. Whispers must have reached her father, however, as when they approached the shop the door was flung open and a large man with an impressive beard filled the doorway.

"Ioreth?" he asked, struck dumb at the sight of the daughter he had not seen in so long.

"Father!" she cried, and hurtled towards him, into his embrace. Aragost stood back and watched as the family reunited, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment. Eventually they stepped back, and the large man surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

"Father, this is Aragost, son of Arahad. Aragost, this is my father William Appledore." The two men exchanged nods, but William eyed the Ranger warily. Ioreth, sensing his discomfort, tried to explain his presence. "Father, Aragost saved me from Sidney."

"Saved? He told us he had taken you to visit his mother in Archet."

Ioreth shook her head sadly. "Perhaps, father, we should go inside and I can tell you the full tale."

William nodded, and opened his home to the Ranger. Thankfully, Sidney was not at the shop, having left Bree earlier in the day to run some errands. The trio sat at the large table, and Ioreth explained to her father her imprisonment at Fornost. She explained in detail what Sidney had done, with input from Aragost about what he saw of the watchtower. William fought with his growing anger as the story progressed, eventually reaching the part where Ioreth was taken to the Angle.

"I was so scared, father! I just wanted to get as much distance between me and Sidney as possible, and I had no idea what he had told you or if you thought I was dead and I was so afraid you wouldn't believe me. Please don't be angry with me, father!" she begged.

William drew her close and held her as she cried through her fears, as he had done since she was a child.

"Peace, Ioreth. I believe you. And when that foul rat returns he shall do so for the last time. He won't harm you again, that I promise." Ioreth sagged in relief, and the two parted.

Aragost smiled at Ioreth, pleased that her fears were now put to rest. It was in this quiet moment that the shop door opened once again, and a thin-faced man walked in with easy confidence. He was not the most handsome of men, although his features weren't displeasing, but there was a sinister edge to him, and William wondered why he had never seen Sidney Thistlewool in such a way before.

"Hello, Mr. Appledore! I managed to get-" Thistlewool never explained what he had gotten from the market, as his eyes landed on Ioreth sitting calmly at the table. His face paled.

"Ioreth! Mother had not told me you were returning today," he cried, trying to keep up the charade.

"That may have been because she didn't know. Nor has she ever met me," Ioreth replied acidly.

"Whatever do you mean, dearest?"

"I _mean_, that you locked me in the tallest tower in Fornost!" Ioreth shouted.

"I would never! Ioreth, did you eat a strange mushroom?"

"Mushroom! You dare blame my daughter's imprisonment on a _mushroom,_ you snivelling rat?" William exploded.

"I had to do it!" Sidney whined, seeing that there was no way to escape his employer's wrath. "She would never have stayed with me otherwise!" His protestations turned to anger as spittle flew with every word. "Always she would taunt me by talking to other men! A faithless slut no better than a two copper whore!"

He snarled and moved for Ioreth but fell before he could touch her. William stood over his prone form, a rolling pin heavy in his hand. Stooping to lift him like a sack of flour, William moved to the door, and threw the unconscious man into the street, where a chamber pot was promptly emptied onto him. He awoke smelling of piss and was promptly chased from the town by a number of Ioreth's friends, who had heard his shouting from outside. Thistlewool was forced to return to Archet, where his mother put him to work on the farm in the hope that it would once and for all beat some humility into him.

With the drama done and Ioreth safely returned to her family, Aragost felt that it was time to leave, lest it became too difficult to part with her. This became more difficult than he expected when both Ioreth and William demanded he stay for at least two days. During that time he came to realise that for all his strength William was both gentle and willing to do almost anything to give happiness to his youngest child. Ioreth, for her part, spent the time extracting promises from Aragost that he would write with news every week and that he would visit every other month.

It was a promise that he gladly kept, and through the course of a year their friendship deepened into love. William, seeing how her face lit up in Aragost's presence, gave his blessing, and so the two were married and lived long prosperous lives.

~{+*+}~

By the time Berylla and Arathorn reached the ford of the Bruinen two weeks had passed since their night on Weathertop. Berylla had badgered Arathorn for stories about the fortress for hours, vowing to remember every detail so she could tell them to Bilbo. The river was running quickly at the ford, which Arathorn noted was a little higher than usual. This made no difference to him, as it only came up to his knees. He took Berylla's pack from her, knowing that he could walk across and keep it dry whereas she couldn't.

"Come on Berylla, nearly there!" he said jovially, and began to walk across the ford.

Berylla stood on the edge of dry land, remembering the dire warnings Bungo had given her about going near rivers and lakes.

"Hobbits don't swim," he had said, "they _sink_."

The water, although only going to Arathorn's knees, would go to her waist if she ventured across. She took a breath and placed one foot into the water, only to yank it out again quickly.

"It's cold!" she complained to Arathorn, who was by now halfway across.

"Of course! It runs down from the mountain. Now come on, Berylla! We're going to see the Elves!" Arathorn laughed, not noticing her fear in his elation at being so close to a place dear to his heart. One day he knew that his son would be raised in Rivendell, just as he had been. Back on the opposite bank Berylla huffed at her fear being treated so trivially.

"Just take a step, Berylla," she told herself. "You can do this. _I _can do this."

Taking a deep breath, sure she would be pulled under immediately, Berylla stepped into the Bruinen ford. The water was icy cold and made her gasp for air. She took a step at a time and waded across, thoroughly disgruntled at being so wet. At least some stains may wash out, she thought, and this was the closest thing she'd had to a bath since leaving Bree. Arathorn watched her from dry land, their packs placed safely away from the river.

She was nearly to the shore when it happened. A particularly strong current swept her feet from under her, sending her tumbling into the water. In her panic, she forgot that she could stand, and began to fight with the pull of the river. Berylla fought to get to the surface, but barely had the time to breathe before she was pulled under again. Water rushed into her mouth and it burned as she choked, swallowing more. Arathorn waded in to haul her to the surface as she flailed and gasped for air desperately. Arathorn struggled to get a firm hold on her, earning several bruises in his attempts to get her ashore.

"Berylla! Calm down, you can stand up!" he yelled at her, hoping his voice would cut through the fear. It helped only marginally, but it gave him the opportunity to pull her clear.

As soon as her feet touched dry land Berylla collapsed, shaking and crying.

"I'm never going near water again!" she declared, scratchily. It hurt to talk and she could still feel the water pressing on her chest. In an attempt not to think about the water closing over her head she started wringing out her drenched skirt.

"Really? Because the first thing I'm going to do is teach you to swim." Arathorn countered. "And how to shoot a bow," he added. He could do both. He had time.

"_No,"_ Berylla uttered darkly, before preceding to curse her friend in whispered Hobbitish.

Arathorn picked up the packs and started to walk in the direction of Rivendell, forcing Berylla to run to catch up, her wet skirt weighing her down.

And so it was that Berylla Baggins entered the famed city of Rivendell, at the age of 23, sopping wet.


End file.
